My pants, her ankles &

She writes me
pat on the back poetry
though secretly I'm convinced
she's braiding my gonads
through her hair
while I wince at tame consolation
preferring my slush scribbled prolifically
for the boredom of a solitary wolf

Daily, I spoon
her sickly word-churn curry
into something more palatable
a dirty, hard
doggie style arrangement
where she salivates wildly
and the whites of her eyes bulge
tacky fun holding her head
over the edge of some soggy
literary cliff

I never fail to applaud
all her tortured subway-map lines
faithfully proclaiming them art
stumbling to click
the latest pink envelope
before it squirms from my inbox
or morphs to a flawed diamond
drowning in rhyme or worse

But how long
will it last
before lust
grows ears enough
to savor the roar
from the rocks below
blending moans ferocious
our shudders deranged
in dainty velvet air
the true extent of passion

Fucking as we jump